


Fine China

by moonygirl76



Series: The Head and the Heart Series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Head Injury, Hurt Stiles, Injured Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mates, Poor Stiles Stilinski, Scenting, Temporary Amnesia, Werewolf Mates, but stiles is trying, happy ending coming in next story, head injuries are no joke yo, hmmm yes, hold tight never fear, no one dies, stiles is not at his full potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22246309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonygirl76/pseuds/moonygirl76
Summary: Stiles, still recovering from his head trauma/brain injury, is helping out with pack business while Derek is away. However his injury makes even the simplest jobs more difficult, and he finds himself in danger during what should have been a routine task. Cue the angst please.Thanks for reading. This fandom is the bestest.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: The Head and the Heart Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1601416
Comments: 7
Kudos: 212





	Fine China

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place several months after The Head and the Heart. You don't need to read that first, but you might want to? Stiles is not his usual BAMF self. And, yes, I brought back some peeps. I like them.

Fine China

Stiles gives up after the third cupboard he opens. Scotty is definitely laughing at him and his inability to find a glass in his own kitchen. In the house he has lived in his entire life. Scotty is overly amused and not even trying to hide it. Stiles isn’t having it.

“Hello! Head injury!” Stiles yells at Scotty, pointing to his own head. 

“It wouldn’t be funny if you hadn’t just finished trying to convince me that you are fully healed,” Scotty says. Smug does not suit him. 

“I am mostly, very-much completely healed. Mostly. I’m just tired.” Scotty nods along, sarcastically. Asshole. “Just don’t tell Derek.”

“Tell me what?” Derek asks. Stiles flinches violently and whacks his arm one of the still open cupboards. 

“Ouch! I forgot you were still here,” Stiles says.

“Not the only thing you’ve forgotten, apparently.” Derek says. Smug doesn’t--actually it suits him quite well. Damn his boyfriend is hot.

“Small things,” Stiles says. “I’m only still forgetting small things.”

“I’m not small,” Derek counters. 

“Oh, I know,” Stiles says, winking, blatantly, at Derek. 

“Enough,” Scotty breaks in, with a groan. “I’m leaving.” Serves him right. 

Scotty reaches up to the last cupboard on the left and takes out a glass for Stiles and sets it on the counter. Stiles ignores the glass, resolutely, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Once Scotty is gone, Derek moves in. Chest to chest, he rubs his nose along Stiles’ jaw and up behind his ear until Stiles relents his pout and wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders. 

“You’re still healing,” Derek says into his neck, warm breath tickling the skin there. “There’s no shame in that.”

“I just want to be healed. For it all to be a distant memory. Ha! Memory.”

“Lydia says brain injuries take a long time to heal for humans. Especially, I would imagine, a brain as complicated and magnificent as yours,” Derek says. 

“Oh, man. You say the sweetest things.”

“Only to you.”

“I know. That’s why no one believes me. Just like no one will believe you if you try to tell them that I let you carry me up my room and bring me that glass filled with water and one of my anti-puke pills.”

“Everyone would believe me.”

Derek gets Stiles settled in bed, the so-called anti puke pill already working. Stiles is in that sweet spot between wakeful thoughts and sleepy dreams when he hears Derek’s phone alert behind him where Derek’s breathing had been evening out as well. 

There’s some back and forth texting that goes so long Stiles is about to kick him out of his nap nest when he feels Derek’s lips set on his cheek below his ear. 

“You still awake?” Derek asks, his hand sliding along the top of Stiles’ abs in a very not sleep-provoking way. 

“Depends. What am I awake for? Sexy times or monster of the week?”

Derek’s hand retreats, but doesn’t leave him, resting on his hip. “Do you remember that guest I’m hosting for coffee on Saturday, Trevor Washington? The Beta from San Francisco?”

Stiles takes a minute and a deep breath to try to find the memory. “Friend of your dad’s?”

“Friend of my mother’s, yes. He’s passing through our territory on his way to a retreat in Mexico.”

“Ugh. I want to go to a retreat in Mexico! Do they have nachos? I’d love to have a nacho buffet and then siesta all afternoon. Hola! Soy Stiles. Dónde están los nachos, por favor?”

“Focus, Stiles,” Derek rumbles into the back of his neck but it’s followed by warm puffs of breath of his laugh. He entangles his legs with Stiles, moving closer.

“Friend of your mother,” Stiles repeats. 

“Friend of my mother. Passing through and stopping in for coffee.”

“Friendly reminiscence, or professional courtesy?” Stiles asks.

“More the latter. He’s being polite. We don’t know each other.”

“Okay. What about it?”

“I have a conflict. There’s a pack that’s settled just on the other side of the Nevada state line outside Vegas. The Alpha, Alpha Norman, says he’s stumbled across something that once belonged to my mother.”

“’Stumbled across’ meaning. . . ?”

“He stole it. Or someone gave it to him as payment for something. Who knows? I’ve only ever heard of this guy.”

“And what have you heard? More Norman Rockwell or Norman Bates?”

“He could be Norman Reedus, I don’t really care. I haven’t really heard anything that concerns me or interests me.”

“If he looks like Norman Reedus I am definitely interested.”

Derek huffs another laugh against Stiles’ neck and bites him there with blunt teeth for good measure.

“So, what?” Stiles asks. “He wants to return this mysterious item to its rightful owner?”

“He wants to keep it. Without any hard feelings. Buy it if necessary. But he doesn’t want any trouble so he’s giving me the chance to claim it if I find it has value to our pack.”

“Oh. And you have a conflict because he wants to meet Sunday, the day of your coffee date.”

“Saturday, Stiles. And yes. It’s the only day they are free before they too are heading down to the retreat in Mexico.”

Stiles whines. “Why is everyone getting nachos except pour moi?”

“Pour moi is French. And I’ll take you next time, when you are healed.”

“I am mostly, very-much healed.”

Derek bites him again. 

“So, what are you going to do?” Stiles asks. 

“I was wondering . . . “

“Yeeeessss?” Stiles prompts.

“If you’d be up to host the meeting with Beta Washington while I run the errand? I hate to do it, because there is always a risk.”

“Risk is my middle name,” Stiles says.

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re right. It’s Mischief,” Stiles says. 

“No, it’s not. And it’s just that you’re the only one that can do it, as far as traditional protocol goes. Boyd would work, being my second, but obviously he’s away at college. You’re the natural choice being both my Emissary and my Mate.”

“I’m your Mate?!”

“Stiles,” Derek warns. He also sounds a bit worried. So, when Derek leans over enough to see Stiles’ face, Stiles can’t help but to let a smile break through. He’s not mean. 

“This is all very sudden, Derek. Have we used that word before? That’s quite a commitment.”

Derek has him on his back with his hands pinned above his head in two seconds flat. Not that Stiles is putting up any resistance. If he was, it would take Derek at least five seconds to pull the maneuver. Derek bites and sucks his way from Stiles’ collar bone up to his jaw. Slowly and thoroughly. 

“Don’t tease,” Derek says, “Not about that.”

“This is all very familiar. But I’m not sure. Might need more evidence to, um, stimulate the memory.” Stiles says.

“Maybe your middle name is Mischief.”

“I told you it was.”

Derek settles his weight on Stiles, releasing his wrists and taking Stiles’ face in both his hands. “This is serious though, Stiles. Someone, anyone, coming into our territory is a potential threat and even the most benign of interactions can become hostile if not treated with delicate civility.”

“Hey, I am the most delicate in the area of civilities.”

Derek sighs. “Are you sure you are up to this? I really wanted to avoid giving you a pack-related task until you were better.”

“Derek. You can trust me. I’ll even recruit Allison to help keep me in line. You go on your drive for lost and forgotten items. I’ll protect the fort. I swear I’m up for it. How bad could it be?”

Saturday

“This is the worst.”

Allison chews thoughtfully. “I still like the snickerdoodles, Stiles, you only left them in a few minutes longer than you usually do.”

Stiles throws an oven mit at Allison, who dodges it easily. “Not the cookies. I swear I’ve been bamboggled. Bamboozied. Bam--”

“Bamboozled?” 

“That’s what I said. Derek made this sound like this was such an important pack task. He and Scott are off probably having a real adventure and I’m basically throwing a tea party!”

Allison shrugs as she looks around at the table of finger sandwiches, cookies, and Talia’s plates and cups of fine china that no one needs to know he used. She picks up the ceramic cream dispenser shaped like a cow. 

“This. Is. Adorable.”

“I know, right?!”

The doorbell rings. Stiles goes to answer the door and Allison hangs back a respectable and casual distance. Stiles is also sure that she is probably casually carrying at least three knives hidden somewhere on her person. 

A middle-aged man, maybe ten years older than his father, stands at the doorway. Stiles recognizes him from his online pictures as the man he’s expecting. He’s dressed in smart -casual dresswear, like he’s ready for the retreat. As are the two men flanking him, who look to be in their early twenties. 

Stiles blanks on his name. There’s only supposed to be one and now there is three and he can’t even remember the name of the one. And now his palms and his eye lids are sweating, and he feels sick. He clutches the door, leaning slightly against it. The man takes a half-step towards him, his friendly smile drooping into lines of concern. 

Stiles needs to pull himself together. This is his job. “Welcome,” he manages, in an only slightly choked voice. Allison appears next to Stiles. 

“Beta Washington, this is Emissary Stilinski, and I am Allison. We welcome you on behalf of Alpha Hale and the Hale pack.”

Beta Washington steps back to his original place on the porch and inclines his head in greeting. “Lovely to meet you both. Might I present my two sons, Alfred and Elliot. Both of whom were late additions the trip. I hope it is not too much of an imposition.”

Stiles clears his throat. “Not an imposition at all. I remain all snicker in my doodles.”

Beta Washington’s brow furrows as if trying to contemplate what was said (a reaction that Stiles is all too familiar with). Just as Stiles is about to rescue him from his confusion and rephrase, Beta Washington throws his head back in laughter. His boys merely smile politely. “Snicker in my doodle. I’ll have to remember that.”

Stiles manages to peel himself from the door and usher the men into the great room of the pack house. He waves a hand at the table and Allison brings out the carafe of coffee and sets it down, then hands Stiles a glass of water. She mouths for him to sit down, but he doesn’t get it the first time, shaking his head in confusion. 

“Stiles, why don’t you find a seat and I’ll bring you a plate?” Allison asks aloud. 

If this seems strange to their guests, no one says anything. However, once they are all seated, one of the sons turns to Stiles after a sip of his coffee. 

“Do we find you unwell, Emissary Stilinski?”

“Stiles,” he offers. 

“And I am Elliot.”

Stiles nods. “I recently had a head injury after a misunderstanding with a hunter.”

“Do you have much trouble with local hunters?” Beta Washington asks. 

Allison quietly chokes on a sip of coffee, waving off assistance when Alfred leans toward her. 

“No. Not as of late. These were outsiders.”

They all nod in understanding. There is some silence, save the sound of soft crunching and swallowing. No doubt much louder in the ears of the werewolves. 

“This house is well-appointed. Alpha Hale must not have much in the way of pack business if he has so much time for interior design,” Alfred says. 

Stiles bristles at the comment, and the detected tone, but collects his thoughts before responding. “Derek has time for all the pack business, and overseeing renovations on his family home. Which is mostly spearheaded by eager members of his pack.” Though there would be nothing wrong with it, if Derek were interested in interior design, he adds in his head. 

“Ah yes. Burned to ash, both house and most of its inhabitants. I think I would have left it leveled. Creepy stuff,” Elliot says. 

Again, Stiles has to take three breaths and two sips of coffee before he answers. 

“Like the phoenix, we rise,” Stiles says. 

“Still creepy,” Alfred says with a laugh.

Stiles rubs his temple with the fingertips of his free hand, a motion that doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Stiles, it must be difficult, I would think, to be parted from your mate at a time when you are unwell,” Elliot asks, softly. 

Stiles lifts his eyes over the brim of his cup to meet Allison’s as he blows a breath over the surface of the hot liquid. It isn’t a secret that he and Derek were mated recently. But it also isn’t common knowledge. Because mate talk is private. Sacred. Intimate. And respected as such. It was only brought up if needed. They may have heard a whisper that Derek was mated to his Emissary but, bringing it up so casually in conversation in this sort of setting was unusual, if not outright rude and not done. 

By bringing it up Elliot is either fishing for confirmation for some reason or is looking to see how Stiles will respond. Or, perhaps, he just doesn’t follow delicate civilities. Though strange that his father would allow it, still casually sipping his coffee and looking about the room as if he couldn’t hear a fruit fly fart in the kitchen with his supernatural hearing. Though, he hadn’t seemed inclined to correct anything else his boys had said thus far.

“I am always remiss to part with Derek,” Stiles says, “Though he has confidence in my abilities as Emissary, as I have confidences in his abilities as Alpha.” Stiles looks at Elliot pointedly, hoping that he receives both the message that his focusing on the title of mate rather than Emissary, as well as dwelling on his injury, is not welcome. 

“I beg your pardon, Emissary Stiles. I was recently married in Vegas. I wouldn’t be able to bear being parted from her if she was unwell, nor would she be able to part with me knowing I was to be in danger.”

Stiles is on his feet, alarm bells ringing in his head and the clatter of Talia’s china on to the carpet is a distant sound in his ear. 

“Stiles?” Allison calls. But she doesn’t rise. Neither do the other men. 

“What danger?” Stiles demands, looking down at Elliot’s surprised face. 

“Well, Father said that Alpha Hale was traveling to meet the Norman pack. I’ve heard they can be volatile and unwelcoming. I merely mean that inter-pack relations can be unpredictable at best.”

Stiles feels himself list where he stands. He feels strongly that Elliot knows more than he’s letting on but, if he presses, it could cause a rift that is unwarranted. His breath catches in his throat. 

Allison sets down her cup onto the coffee table and crosses over to where Stiles is standing. The boys continue with their refreshments but, Beta Washington has paused, watching Stiles with concern written all over his face. 

Allison touches his elbow. Too much touching of Stiles, as Derek’s mate, is generally frowned upon in front of people who are not pack. Maybe he’s being paranoid. This is all wrong. It’s all going wrong. He pulls his elbow away. 

“Please excuse me. I need to freshen up. Help yourself,” he waves again, indicating the table. 

He climbs the stairs and enters Derek’s bedroom. He finds his cell phone plugged in on his side of the bed and unplugs it. He pulls up his texts and sends one off to Derek asking him to check in. He waits a minute. Then two. And then four, staring down at his phone. 

He then hits the call button as he uses his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The dizziness is starting to turn his stomach, so he lays his head down on the pillow as he listens to the ring ring ring ring. Derek’s voicemail connects. Stiles ends the call. Knowing that when Derek checks his phone, he’ll see that Stiles tried to reach him. 

Stiles checks the time. He doesn’t actually know what time Derek expected to reach Alpha Norman’s territory. Or, at least, he doesn’t remember. Had Derek said he’d call after the meeting? Had he asked Stiles not to call?

Stiles hits Boyd’s contact, who picks up on the first ring. “Have you heard from Derek?” Stiles asks without pleasantries. He knows Derek would have informed Boyd of his plans, and Boyd knows exactly why Stiles is calling. The problem with a head injury is that it doesn’t just cause nausea, dizziness, pain, and memory loss. It also causes anxiety. And the problem with anxiety is that it makes it difficult to assess a stressor and determine the weight it should be given. In other words, Stiles sometimes feels like he doesn’t know how much to worry. 

“Derek is delayed,” Boyd says, succinctly. 

“Is Derek in danger?”

“Not any more than any other Saturday night.”

“Vernon Henry Boyd.”

“That is not my name, Stiles.”

“Boyd. Don’t gaslight me. Derek set this up to babysit me, didn’t he? He set this up, with Beta Washington and his sons, Elliot and Alfred, as a fool’s errand to keep poor Stiles busy. To make me feel important while really it’s just a distraction while everyone else does the big boy work. Well fine and good. You win. I’m safe. But I have this feeling. Maybe it’s the spark and maybe it’s the mate thing. But I have a feeling like something is wrong.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then, “His sons who now?”

“You’re hilarious!”

Stiles ends the call and throws the phone on the bed. Boyd was so infuriating. A straight answer. Is that too much to ask? Instead Boyd has to point out that Stiles got their names wrong. Tease the guy with the brain injury! 

Elliot was definitely one of the names of the sons. Alfred? Or, was it Allen? Edgar? Edgar Allen?

This is what his life has come to, apparently. He’s supposed to be the Emissary of the pack. Confidante and anchor. But he’s become a sham. A joke. Derek probably asked Beta Washington to come here and divert and protect Stiles so he would not ask to come with Derek on a much more dangerous task. Because he is weak. He is broken.

He takes another few seconds to feel sorry for himself. But nothing is to be done about it now. Stiles stands up, ready to return to his guests, to find one of the boys filling the doorway. “Sorry to startle you, Stiles,” Elliot says. “I heard you yell.”

Stiles marvels at the lack of respect. This is literally Derek’s bedroom. Scent is so important to a werewolf, and an outsider’s scent here is terribly invasive and unwanted. As a born wolf Elliot should know better. 

Elliot steps fully into the room and touches a picture frame on Derek’s dresser. Maybe not.

“Whoa, whoa. No touchy-touchy. I’m fine. Nothing to see. Let’s go back down to the common area,” Stiles says, waving a hand, trying to guide him out without touching him. 

Elliot smiles at him. “Are your sure, Emissary? A little touch-touchy sometimes helps the time go by.”

Stiles squares his shoulders. He might be a joke within his pack at the moment. But his pack is not a joke. 

“Beta Elliot. I am the Emissary of the Hale pack. You are standing in confines of the Alpha’s den. Invited here by the Alpha himself and welcomed by his most trusted adviser. I will not stand for your disrespect on my person, which I must therefore take as a sign of disrespect against our Alpha and pack.”

“Invited here?” Eliot repeats in a low voice, all traces of his smile gone. “We were not invited here, Emissary Stilinski.”

“Your father was. No matter what the capacity of that invitation--”

“Have you not figured out yet why we are here? We have heard nothing except the vast intellect of the Hale emissary. Is your mind so broken?” The smile is back. And it is not friendly. 

Derek would never ask untrustworthy or disrespectful people to come in the pack house. To protect or divert Stiles. He would only stoop so low as to use the pack for that, and only if he felt it absolutely necessary. 

Whatever the reason they are here, he’s about to suggest to Beta Eliot that his welcome has found its expiration, when the doorbell sounds downstairs. 

Elliot turns swiftly out of the room and down the stairs to join the others. Stiles follows and the atmosphere of the great room is much different that when he’d left. Beta Washington, and . . . his other son, are on their feet against the far wall. The son--Stiles is still pretty sure it’s Alfred --has Beta shifted. His claws, teeth and bright blue eyes on display. 

Allison is still sitting in her armchair sipping her coffee, though two of her knives are now sitting on the coffee table in front of her. 

Elliot stands near the serving table. He has not shifted, but definitely looks on guard as the doorbell sounds, again.

Stiles figures at some point he should possibly arm himself, or maybe be more wary but, for one he doesn’t think an actual, immediate threat would ring the doorbell, and secondly, he is just too tired for all of this posturing. 

Stiles open the front door to find Erica and Lydia. They waste no time entering the house squaring off to separate ends of the great room. 

“Refreshments, ladies?” Stiles asks, eyeing Washington and his son’s reactions to the new guests. 

“Let’s get this party started,” Erica says, ignoring Stiles’ pleasantries. She licks her bright red lips. “I think introductions are in order.”

“Beta Washington, I presume,” Lydia follows up. “You are looking well. But your bank account is not. Your pack, including your Alpha, have distanced themselves from you in recent years. Not impressed by your gambling losses, no doubt. You’ve put yourself in prime position to be bought off by shady deals and shadier dealers.”

Stiles stomach rolls. Research. He had done research on Beta Washington. Pulled up his picture on Google, learned about his mother and father and the important mediator he had been in the 90s. Then he had gotten sleepy and nauseated and Derek had taken his computer away. He may or may not have forgotten to get back to it. 

“Tell him about the other thing,” Erica says, around a hint of teeth. 

“Yes. The pièce de résistance. Beta Washington has no children.”

“Ta-da!” Erica says with a flourish of claws. And definitely teeth. 

Allison leans her forearms against her knees, bringing her closer to her knives. “I was pretty sure. Besides the vague coloring similarities, you don’t act like family. Different stances, gaits, gestures and words.”

Stiles leans back against the serving table. He felt like he too was being flayed open by these ladies. He hadn’t noticed any of that. Or lack of that.

“Why are you here?” Lydia addresses her question, not to Beta Washington, but to Elliot. 

“Alfred and I are members of the Norman pack. We are here as insurance. If negotiations do not go well with Alpha Hale, he will be informed of our residence here with his . . .” he turns and looks directly at Stiles, “mate.”

“Excuse me. Emissary Stiles has earned his title in this pack, and you will address him as such,” Lydia says.

“Oh, I’m sure he has earned his title as mate, as well.”

Several things happen at once. Stiles’s muzzy brain is only barely able to track any of them. 

Elliot reaches out to clasp the back of Stiles’s neck, maybe to contain, maybe to use as a human shield, most likely not to maim, as he seems to be aiming for the back of his neck and not his throat. Regardless, his fingertips barely graze the back of Stiles’s hairline when there is a whirring between them and Elliot is propelled back over the serving table. When Stiles is able to focus on him again, he sees an arrow lodged in his right shoulder just inside the joint. It pins him to the wall like a bug specimen. He roars into his full Beta shift. And though Stiles vaguely realizes he is much too close, he feels paralyzed in the moment.

Stiles is only able to just wonder about Allison hiding an entire armed crossbow beneath the couch, when he sees Alfred launch himself bodily toward Allison who cuts him off mid-flight with one knife to his shoulder and the other deep into his gut, leaving him half on and half off the couch and bleeding out all over it. Which is a shame. It really tied together the room.

Somewhere in all of this, Erica has Beta Washington thrown to the floor and his full-on roaring in his face. He looks resigned and hasn’t even attempted to shift in his defense. 

Elliot roars again in frustration. As Stiles turns to face him, he hears Lydia shout out his name and he’d like to think that if he’d been at full capacity, he might have registered sooner Elliot’s left arm swinging toward him. As it is, he barely catches a glimpse of the ceramic cow-shaped cream dispenser before it meets the right side of his head and shatters. Bits of glass and cream covering his face. 

He registers motion. Motion of the floor moving toward him. Motion of bodies moving around him. Motion of being rolled. Motion of sandwiches and cookies and coffee coming up his esophagus. Motion of being rolled. Motion of faces of legs of shoes. Motion of heavy eyelids close, close, close, closing. 

He's on his feet. He’ll fight. He’ll fight through this pain and though this almost overwhelming nausea that has him ready to fall to his knees. But he will fight this entire room of people. Too much movement. Too many sounds. Too many strangers. Small. Small space. Small skull on his tight brain. 

Another one steps close and Stiles jerks away. He’s cornered he doesn’t know these people. Not the boy with the crooked smile, not the cop who is probably here to arrest him, not the scary-pretty girl with the red mouth turned down. What do they want? Why can’t they just leave him alone?

The girl with the strawberry blonde hair tries once more, feigning a gentle voice and gentle manicured fingers. He pushes her roughly away and sees the hurt in her eyes. What right does she have to be hurt? 

He sinks down to the floor and buries his face in his knees. The tears come uninvited. He’s just so tired. And so sick. And so scared. “Leave me alone. I don’t know you,” he says to her, to them, to anyone. 

Pain. Just a hum of pain. It’s enough just to tolerate the pain. 

“Stiles,” he hears him say. He lifts his head to see Derek, crouched down next to him. Not reaching, not touching, not encroaching. But finally. It’s one person he knows. One person he’d gladly let . . . croach. 

“Derek,” Stiles gets out and the tears come harder for some reason. Downpour. He grabs at Derek until he finds a lap to sit in. Pulls at him until he finds a neck to press into. Wrangles until he finds somewhere to wrap his arms. Derek will keep him safe. And he will help him understand. Where he is. Who those people are. What happened to his head. Why he smells like milk. And . . . who is he?

To be continued. . . .


End file.
